


Keep Me Warm

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the 2012 Brazil race, Mark knows exactly where he needs to be, for Fernando and for himself. There's a hotel room with their names on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the last race of the 2012 season. Love and grateful thanks to gemjam for her betaing, especially since she was so super-busy!

 

 

The first thing Mark thought once Sebastian had been confirmed as champion was “Oh shit.

 

He was happy for the team and was all-too-practised in hiding most of the bitterness he felt at once again not being the championship-winning Red Bull driver. But he also easily spied Fernando, eyes utterly empty and distraught, his championship hopes once again squashed by Sebastian. Once was difficult enough, twice was a fucking heartbreaker.

 

Mark was part of the crowd that crushed around Seb. They weren't close, but they respected one another and could hold a civil conversation. And Seb had driven out of his skin – no one was going to forget his drive at Abu Dhabi. So Mark hugged him and told him 'well done' until Sebastian pulled back far enough to speak quietly into his ear.

 

“Sorry for the shit you'll be dealing with tonight.”

 

Mark smiled sardonically. Seb wasn't going to apologise for winning, nobody in their right mind apologised for that. But he knew where Mark would soon be going. He really didn’t have a clue though, that it wasn’t just for Fernando or Stefano that Mark spent so much time with Fernando when the Spaniard was in a filthy temper. Sebastian had no real clue about the breadth of the fucking cold spot that grew inside of Mark’s chest. It grew larger every year that he didn’t win, every year that he was one of the older, more experienced drivers, and yet without a single world championship to his name. Every year he was second best and overlooked, in most people’s eyes and particularly at Red Bull, and Seb’s win just fucking compounded that feeling.

 

Sebastian patted Mark on the back before pulling away to hug more Red Bull staff. Mark briefly considered short-sheeting the German's bed. Sebastian would see the funny side, he always did. Jensen probably would too, but sadly Mark didn't have time.

 

Christian appeared at his elbow. “Good job.”

 

“Thanks. Could have done better.”

 

“Everybody could have, Sebastian included.”

 

It was one of the things Mark liked about Christian as the team principal – he gave praise where it was due but he never slacked off on saying where people had cocked up. He'd be all congratulations to Sebastian today during interviews but come tomorrow, he'd be reviewing the race footage and telling the world champion just where he'd let himself and the team down. And Seb wouldn't take offence. He'd watch the footage too and make his own notes. It was one of the reasons he was so good at his job, the others being that he was a freak of nature behind the wheel, with ice in his veins and a scarily-mature head on his shoulders.

 

The same couldn’t always be said of the guy who'd come in second today. Mark rubbed a hand against his chest.

 

Christian smiled quietly. “Go. The press have got photos of you congratulating Seb.”

 

Mark grinned grimly – his media duties were already done and now the press couldn't say he’d acted resentfully or that he’d snubbed his teammate. Their story wasn't going to be him this time. They had Michael's retirement, Sebastian's win, and Fernando's loss to feast on. Good luck to them.

 

He left the heaving throng and ducked into the Red Bull motorhome to strip off his gear and shower away the sweat and disappointment. He turned the shower on scalding-hot and closed his eyes under the spray. It was the first alone time he'd gotten all weekend. Even in the car he’d had a voice in his ear constantly. He sighed; another race year over, another year without a championship. Oh, he'd helped Red Bull win the constructor’s title again, that was something, and Christian had already publicly praised him for his vital contribution. Still, another year without winning the driver’s title. Fuck.

 

Some part of him remained untouched by the shower’s heat.

 

Twisting the water off before he literally drowned his sorrows, Mark towelled himself dry and changed into jeans and a Red Bull shirt, slipping on sunnies and a baseball cap. It was a weak attempt at anonymity during the biggest race weekend of the year but he really wanted ( _needed_ ) to escape without having to deal with the crush of fans. Christian knew where he'd be if the team needed him. He'd booked the hotel way before arriving in Brazil.

 

He packed his gear and quickly headed to where his driver was waiting. Fucking ironic; a Formula 1 driver having a driver of his own. But on race weekends, that was the damn rule. It made sense – Formula 1 could drive people a little crazy and the high-octane emotions of a race could short anybody out behind the wheel.

 

Mark tugged the bill of his cap lower and told the driver where to go. The hotel was a discreet place he’d used before; they took their clients’ privacy very seriously. Exactly what he and Fernando needed. The driver got him there quickly and the desk clerk told him that both his luggage and his roommate had already arrived. Mark wondered briefly how much extra Stefano had paid. He made a note to buy the Ferrari team principal a drink the next time he had the opportunity. He leaned against the mirrored elevator wall as it took him steadily upwards. God, he was so tired, so cold. The hotel room door opened on the first try with his keycard. Here we go.

 

The en-suite bathroom door was open and there was still steam in the air. A couple of suitcases were stacked by the window. Clothes dripped over the floor and puddled by the wardrobe. Fernando lay out on the bed, wearing what could have been pyjamas. He was unmoving. Mark’s heart twisted hard. He dropped his gear, shed his cap, sunnies, and jacket, and toed off his shoes. He switched his phone off.

 

Fernando still didn’t move when Mark crawled onto the bed, that bone-deep chill inside pulsing into a razor’s edge of desperation for contact. Fernando didn’t protest when Mark repositioned him so that they were spooning, warmth leaching from one to the other. Oh God, that was good. Mark sighed into Fernando’s neck and inhaled the Spaniard’s scent – track dust, lemon shampoo, champagne, and smoke. Some things a shower just couldn’t erase. Both of them would smell of tarmac and engines ‘til the day they died.

 

Mark burrowed a hand under Fernando’s shirt and pressed it to the skin over his heart. He tangled their legs together and closed his eyes, just for now, just for the two of them, knotted together. They were exactly where they needed to be.

 

They stayed that way for a while, for hours – two grown men locked in place, silent and still and grieving. Nobody disturbed them, no headlines were made. They just lay there, Mark drowning in Fernando’s smell and warmth. It felt like the best thing that had happened all weekend. Fernando held tightly to the hand that clasped at his waist. His stiff body language gradually melted into something crumpled and needy. Mark wanted to fucking erase that; he wanted to scoop it out of Fernando’s bones and spit on it. Neither of them fucking deserved this.

 

Eventually Fernando shifted and his nails scraped at Mark’s wrist. The silent spell was broken. Fernando turned over so that they were facing each other, entire conversations in their eyes. They didn’t bother with sympathy; they’d used up all of their ‘I’m disappointed, but just fine’ and ‘I’ll be back stronger next year’ platitudes on the media.

 

Instead Mark kept one hand anchored at Fernando’s waist and twisted the other into the Ferrari driver’s hair. He smoothed fingers down to the tangled nape of Fernando’s neck. They’d both been here before, too many fucking times. Their heavy breaths spoke volumes.

 

Fernando nuzzled his face, hungry and miserable, into Mark’s touch. Mark’s fingertips felt numb with similar sensation. They had time; he’d booked the room for two weeks, and they could always stay longer. There was nowhere else they had to be. Nowhere else they wanted to be either. This was who they were. And who they were together was like the first clear gasping breath after drowning.

 

Mark pressed a kiss to Fernando’s forehead, a tender promise, a begging request, and held on. Something cracked inside of him. Fernando held on just as tightly.

 

_-the end_


End file.
